Page 233 of Whisper
“Hands up, Haddad.”
He knew that voice.
No…
“Isaid, hands up. I can see you. And I have my weapon trained on the center of your forehead, so if you don’t want to die, this very moment, put yourfuckinghands up.”
Slowly, Dawood let go of his weapon. Lifted his hands until they were next to his head. He stared at the darkness, the blackness from where the voice had come. “Show yourself.”
The barrel of a handgun appeared first, then hands clutching the grip. Arms, legs, a face cast in shadow. And—
Kris, I am so sorry.
“Finally, you can follow instructions,” Dan purred. “Let’s see how well that continues. On your knees.”
Dawood didn’t move.
“Now.” Dan stepped closer and took aim, right between his eyes. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
He kneeled, his knees digging into the cold, broken cement of the warehouse’s cracked floor. “Why, Dan? Why did you do this?”
Dan circled him slowly, weapon aimed for the center of his head. Dawood’s breath shook, trembling over his lips as Dan’s boots crunched against the dirty ground.Bam. Blinding pain streaked through his skull, made his vision streak and smear. A boot slammed into the center of his back, shoving him forward, face-first. All the air in his chestwhooshedout, and he gasped, struggling to breathe. Hands grabbed his arms, wrenched them backward.
The cold steel of handcuffs closed around his wrists.
“Quiet. You don’t get to ask questions. Not after the trouble you caused. Just keep your mouth shut while I fix your mess.” Dan pushed hard off his back and moved away, holstering his weapon.
Dawood struggled to his knees. “Why are you turning against the CIA? Why have you betrayed everyone?”
“I am afuckingpatriot!” Dan snapped. “I care about this country! About the world! I’m going to wake everyone up again! Wake them up to your fucking barbarism again. Of you and your kind.”
“My kind?”
“FuckingIslamists. You and your brothers who bow to your Allah, who worship a camel fucker from the seventh century and want to return the world to the backward bullshit of the medieval times. Who think that the only laws worth following are Sharia laws, which, by the way, would see you stoned to death for being a fucking sodomite.”
“That isnottrue Islam, or the true love of Allah—”
“Spare methe preaching. I’ve heard enough preaching, in the gutters of Islamabad, from the mouths of Zahawi and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and all the other al-Qaeda fucks we threw in Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib. I’ve heard enough about your fucking death cult to last the rest of my life.”
Nothing made sense. Nothing added up. “And you decided tohelpal-Qaeda? Decided to betray the CIA?”
“I’mhelpingthe CIA! I’m remindingeveryone—the CIA, the president, the American people, everyone—just how dangerous your kind truly is. The world has slacked off, let the fucking Islamists regain ground. ISIS making land grabs in Iraq and Syria, in Egypt, in Africa, and back in Afghanistan. The world has taken their eyes off the ball, and it’s time they realized how wrong that is. It’s time to remind everyone that this is a war for the soul of humanity. Against you, and your death cult, your God of murder. It’s time that everyone remembers that we have to destroy every last one of your kind.”
He couldn’t breathe. Dan spun in and out of focus, Dawood’s vision fracturing into a billion shards, the world collapsing all around him as he struggled to hold on to reality. What had happened to the world? To the man he’d known, the soft-spoken, gentle analyst, Kris’s friend… and lover? Dan was supposed to be the happy ending he couldn’t give Kris. The safe harbor for Kris’s heart, the arms that cradled him close after.
Dawood blinked. Tried to inhale. Tried to form a thought, a prayer.Allah, what is this? What path is this?He’d put his faith in Allah, in the path he had to walk, had clung to his determination in the face of everything. In the face of Kris, the other half of his soul. His jihad had always been about the soul, about keeping to the path of his life, holding fast to Allah, like his father had begged him to so many years ago.
Was this what clinging to the path led to? What faith delivered? Was this, in the end, all that was left? He’d run his race, fought his wars, lived more lives packed into one lifetime than any man had any right to feel in his heart. And for what? What did the end of the path lead to? Where had his faith brought him?
Like father, like son, the proverbs always said.The apple does not fall far from the tree. His father had been murdered for his faith.
So too, it seemed, would he.
What did he have to show for this life, this dedication to his faith? His father had, at least, had him, his mother, a happy home, a life of love and light and peace, submission to a loving God who breathed radiance into all things.
Dawood had a pit in his soul, a hole carved in his heart in the shape of Kris’s smile. A void, dead space within him that hummed, that threatened to overtake his mind, his soul.
And he had a husband who had thrown him aside, who had lain in the arms of another man. A traitor.
